Ejiro laughed. Obiora wanted him so badly it felt like heartache.
“I’m sorry,” Ejiro said between laughs. “I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Please continue.”
Obiora sighed, shaking his head, but he was smiling. “I want to be a personal trainer.”
“Yeah?” Ejiro encouraged, sounding genuinely interested. “Like Esther?”
Obiora felt the usual warmth at hearing his best friend’s name in Ejiro’s mouth. It made Obiora’s feelings for him intensify—made this thing between them feel that more tangible.
“Yup,” Obiora admitted. “While working for my father helped a lot to distract me from my grief, there were still the long nights and even longer weekends to account for. I didn’t want to bother my family any more than I already had, so I took to walking.”
It had been mid-June, probably, about three months after Ada’s funeral, after his father had managed to finally pull him out of his self-imposed isolation. His family had gone all the way down to London to help him move out of the house he’d shared so briefly with his late girlfriend, and when he’d refused to move back into his parents’ house—he’d been terrified he’d never be able to leave again if he did—they’d helped him sign the rental agreement for a flat in Sheffield.
But the place had felt so fucking alien and so fucking empty. Working all day at his father’s office had helped, but the evenings and the nights and the weekends had been awful. Not wanting his family to worry, Obiora had practically taken to running out of the building almost on autopilot every single day after work, wandering the hilly Sheffield streets until he was so exhausted he collapsed the moment he headed back home. It was on one of those days he’d stumbled, entirely by accident, on the small, private gym that was Isi Fitness, hidden as it was within a small, residential area off the main streets.
He’d spotted the poster on the outside wall beside the single, glass door holding the image of a punching bag, and remembered thinking, yeah, actually, I’d really fucking like to punch something. Esther had met him like that—her family owned the gym, but she’d only just gotten her own licence back then—and she’d taught him how to use the gym to channel his grief in a healthier way, instead of using it as something self-destructive. After that, the gym had kind of become his second home.
“It wasn’t like I always wanted to be a personal trainer or whatever; the desire kind of snuck up on me. I noticed a lot of folks struggling during my time at the gym, and found myself going over to help them out. Then they kept coming back to me for advice, or updating me on their progress. Then they referred me to their friends.” Obiora shook his head a little, smiling as he recalled when Mrs. Rhysand, one of the regulars, had come back with her sister-in-law, touting loudly about how sweet and patient Obiora was, the best personal trainer she’d ever had. The mix of embarrassment and pride he’d felt at that moment—he’d never forget it. “Some of them had apparently thought I worked there.” Ejiro laughed. Obiora grinned. “Esther, naturally, took advantage of that.”
“Of course,” Ejiro said, amused.
Obiora grinned wider. “She pretended to come late for her classes, which usually left me in charge. And I—well, when I began to do it for real, without pretending I was just being a nice neighbour—well. I love it. I absolutely adore it. At this point, Esther’s just waiting for me to give her the greenlight, so I can have my own class.”
Ejiro’s eyes were bright, shining. He was staring at Obiora like he’d hung the moon.
Overwhelmed—afraid, suddenly, Obiora abruptly flung his hand out between them. “Let’s make a pact.”
The movement startled Ejiro out of whatever he was feeling, and he blinked, looked away, a little self-conscious.
When he met Obiora’s eyes once more, his emotions were gone, carefully shuttered away. Obiora felt a pang of painful regret.
“A pact?” Ejiro repeated, raising both eyebrows.
“Yup.” Obiora wiggled his fingers.
Ejiro reached out and joined their hands.
Obiora sucked in a sharp breath at the lack of hesitation, the complete trust in the gesture. He took a moment to compose himself.
“Let’s promise,” he began, “that when this is all over—when we get back home, we’ll tell our parents how we really feel.”
Ejiro swallowed visibly. His hand squeezed around Obiora’s reflexively, subconsciously. “I—”
He was afraid. Terrified, even. It was in his eyes.
Obiora knew exactly how he felt. The thought of telling his father he wanted to leave—and to become a personal trainer, as well—felt like he was shoving the man’s kindness back up his own ass. But that was just his fears—that was just him projecting.
He gave Ejiro’s hand an encouraging squeeze.
“Continuing like this isn’t stable,” Obiora whispered. “For either of us. Something’s got to give. If our parents get upset, then that’s okay. They won’t be upset forever. But if we keep on like this? That’s our lives we’re talking about, Ejiro. Our happiness.” His voice grew stronger with conviction the more he spoke.
Ejiro took in a shuddering breath. He closed his eyes, but he nodded.
“Okay,” he said hoarsely, eyes still closed. “Okay. I will. I’ll tell her. I promise.”
“I promise,” Obiora echoed.
He gave Ejiro’s hand another squeeze. Ejiro squeezed back. Ejiro didn’t let go immediately afterward, instead holding Obiora’s hand for a few heart stopping moments, before slowly sliding his hand out of Obiora’s grasp. Obiora missed the touch instantly.
